


lapis lazuli

by blackkat



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches walk the human world in secret, just out of sight and mind. Ianto Jones never reached Lisa Hallett's side in time to save her, but he comes to Torchwood Three with a terrible secret nevertheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All perform their tragic play

Torchwood is almost silent this early in the morning. Even Jack isn't up, locked down in his bunker with whatever waking dreams he chooses to entertain on nights like this. The creatures in the cells aren't stirring yet, and Myfanwy is curled up in his nest—and really, that will teach Ianto to name any creature without being entirely certain of the gender. Myfanwy's size clearly indicates that he's...well, a he.

In his defense, though, Ianto never expected to have to identify dinosaurs on sight by species and gender when Rupert Howarth first recruited him for a research position in the T1 Archives.

Though, knowing Torchwood as he does now, perhaps he should have.

Ianto snorts a little at the whimsy of his thoughts and turns his attention back to the thin black line at his feet. Torchwood is as close to silent as it ever gets, and in the hush the swish and slide of the paintbrush is ridiculously loud.

But the diagram is nearly complete.

It's foolishness, but Ianto glances back towards the bed he just deserted, to the Captain he's betraying with every stroke of his brush on the stone floor of the Hub, with every line of India ink that he lays down knowing it isn't in any way for the betterment of Torchwood, or the rest of the world.

The exact opposite, really, and Ianto  _knows_ it _,_ but this is one evil plot he can't—won't—stop.

Not when it bears the price it does.

 _Three more days,_ Ianto thinks, sitting back on his heels and surveying what he's accomplished so far. It's bittersweet. The thin black lines curve around the entirety of the Hub, branching off at sharp angles and in sweeping curves. There are images in the curling lines, the crisp bends. A spreading tree here, a bird composed of three lines there, a half-sun and a slitted eye and a falling tumble of Sumerian symbols mixed with the graceful, exact slashes of Enochian.

It's beautiful, precise. Ianto has poured his very soul into the creation of it, and he's never, ever hated any of his creations more.

Shadows warp and writhe, and Ianto glances up in time to see a tendril of darkness detach from the rest and slither towards him.

Even though his skin crawls to do so, Ianto reaches out and lets the snake-sending curl around his wrist as he brings it up to eye level.

"Almost," he tells the witch controlling the beast. "Seventy-two hours, if I can continue working at this pace."

"You had best," the sending hisses, and there's an undertone of dark glee to its voice. "We rescued you from that Hell, Ianto Jones, and have sworn to bring your lady-love back to life. Now you must keep your end of the bargain."

Ianto clenches his free hand so hard that his fingernails dig into his palm and draw blood. "Yes," he acknowledges through gritted teeth, not trusting himself to say more. It is...inconvenient to be bound to another witch like this. Especially  _this_ witch. "It will be done, sire."

With a final, mocking hiss, the construct dissolves into shadow once more, vanishing in the weak light. Ianto studies the bleeding gouges in his palm for a moment, then sighs and drops his hand, careful not to get any blood on the array, which would activate it prematurely. The last thing he wants tonight—or today, rather—is to have to explain to the Captain how a portal to a pocket dimension that houses the Five Courts and the Witch-King of the Nevermore managed to open in the middle of the Hub.

He is entirely fed up with this whole sorry business, and if it wasn't for Lisa—

But it is for Lisa, all of it, every betrayal and false smile and the agony of tumbling headlong into an affair with Jack—it's all for her, and a bitter, cynical part of Ianto wonders how their relationship will ever manage to survive, even if the Witch-King keeps his oath and brings her back.

That's hardly certain, either. The other witches Ianto knows all whisper "warlock" behind their ruler's back, and it's a grave thing indeed for them to call their king an oath-breaker, even outside of a formal challenge, but no one ever denies it.

Ianto doesn't. He's a loyal man, but his loyalty must first be earned, and this false king who so easily calls Ianto his subject has done nothing to earn anything but enmity.

Not like Jack. Not like Jack at all.

" _Too close, Torchwood Three. They're too close to our people, Ianto Jones. Let us fix that._ "

Just a whisper of a memory, but it makes Ianto shudder a little nonetheless, mouth tightening in disgust. Witches have existed as long as the rest of humanity, but they've always been one step to the left of the human world, half-hidden in the shadows and the tangle of myths around them. Humans have always been  _close,_ and it's never been a problem before. Now—

Biting back a sigh, Ianto pushes himself to his feet and caps the ink bottle, tucking the brush back into its case. After so many years, the motions are automatic, and he passes his hand over the set in a quick sweep. The small diagrams carved into both light with a pale gold glow, shining for three heartbeats before vanishing without so much as a shimmer.

The incomplete circle at Ianto's feet glitters, stray sparks of power dancing over the dark lines and then fading into nothingness again.

 _Three more days,_ Ianto reminds himself, carefully not letting himself stray towards the thought of  _seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, two hundred and fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds._

Put that way, it's far too little time for  _anything._

Standing at the foot of the stairs, the last traces of magic fading from the air around him, Ianto hesitates. He has a choice right now. Jack is in the bunker, and if Ianto goes to him he will be greeted with sweet, excited kisses and as much enthusiasm as one human body can contain. They'll doubtless end up shagging in Jack's narrow camp bed, little noises held tight between them because they're both too greedy to let such sounds go very far at all. There will be laughter, too, because there's always laughter with Jack and bed and naked bodies, and just for a minute or two Ianto will forget every bloody fucking thing that's gone wrong with his life recently.

Or he can go home, to the empty apartment that is nevertheless full of Lisa, full of the memories of a Hell of metal and blood and fire. Full of horror and terror and deep, dark desperation when he realizes, yet again, that he didn't make it to her side in time.

There's a way to undo that mistake, and if Ianto must swear his soul away to the devil himself, he'll do so without argument.

All the Witch-King is asking for in return is his honor, his self-respect, his loyalty, and the heart that will surely break when Ianto is forced to look Jack in the eye and face what he's done.

Ianto loves Lisa. He loves her so much that it's like an ocean inside of him, deep and wide. But that ocean has turned sullen and stormy of late, and there's no peace to be found on its shores.

Jack is a calm berth in the storm, and Ianto hates himself for it, loathes himself for allowing Jack Harkness to crawl into his heart and carve out a piece for himself. But he's done it already, and if Ianto knows anything about himself it's that he never has let go of love easily. That's what got him into this bloody mess in the first place.

He glances towards the door leading up to the street, and this  _should_ be a hard decision. Ianto  _needs_ it to be in a way he hasn't needed anything since those first few hellish hours after One fell.

But it's not.

Nothing has ever been simpler.

Ianto turns away from the outside world, from his tomb-like apartment, from Lisa, and raises a hand. His fingers trace a grand, lazy circle in the air in silver light, then flick through a rapid string of red-gold Enochian just inside the circle's rim. Behind him, the black lines on the floor fade into nothing more than a collection of smudges here and there. Then, without looking back, Ianto heads up the stairs, his steps quick and sure.

When Ianto slides down the ladder, Jack greets him with a bright, happy grin, and Ianto doesn't think any more that night.

He's glad for it.

He's glad for Jack, too, though he'll never, ever say it aloud.

* * *

It's still quiet when Ianto peels himself out of Jack's bed, several hours later, but this time the quiet is somehow soft, gentle against his skin as he makes his way up the ladder and then into the kitchen. The ritual of measuring out the coffee beans, grinding them, and then setting up the machine takes little concentration at this point, but Ianto gives it his full attention anyway; good coffee is nothing to take for granted.

(With some amusement, he wonders what the others would do if the coffee maker ever broke; at this point, they've likely got more coffee flowing through their veins than blood.)

He steals the first cup right from the drip and retreats to his desk with it. There's nothing to do, all of his paperwork neatly completed and stacked off to the side, waiting for him to summon up his willpower for the hour-long chore that getting Jack's signature will likely devolve into. Just the thought of it makes Ianto roll his eyes and sink a little deeper into his seat, but it's...fond.

It shouldn't be, but Ianto pushes the thought away and refuses to focus on it.

If nothing else, he's brilliant at denial _._

 _Sixty-seven hours,_ he very carefully doesn't think.

There's a whisper-hush of bare footsteps behind him, Ianto's only warning before a pair of brawny arms gently close around him and a square jaw settles on his shoulder. There's a smell in the air, a hint of spice that is entirely unique to Jack, and Ianto leans back into it with a breath of what is possibly (likely) relief.

"Good morning, Jack," he murmurs with a small smile, offering his cup.

Jack takes it with a soft chuckle and a fleeting brush of lips against his throat. "Wonderful as always, Ianto, but not the reason for this, you know. Bed was cold without you."

Ianto takes Jack's wrist between his fingertips as the Captain passes his mug back, and lays a careful kiss against his palm. It feels...natural, as it likely shouldn't.

He wonders what it says about "should" and "likely" and "right" that Ianto has spent more nights than not in Jack's bed, these last few weeks. Not much good, probably. And possibly even less that's good about Ianto.

When he turns his head that little but further, Jack is watching him, blue eyes as warm and kind as a summer sky. There's a question in the depths, though, and it's one that Ianto is in no way prepared to face yet.

 _Where do we go from here? What next?_ Jack asks silently.

 _Sixty-seven hours,_ Ianto answers without words.  _Sixty-seven hours, and after that I guarantee you won't care a whit what happens to me, Captain._

Ianto looks away from the question, from the thought of later, and is saved by the sudden shriek of the phone, strident and shocking in the quiet. He answers it automatically, a simple "Agent Jones," that won't blow their cover—what tattered, shredded remnants are left of it—if it's only a wrong number.

It's not.

"Detective Greyson, Cardiff Police," the man on the line answers grimly. "We've something that's right up your alley, I think, Agent Jones."

Ianto trades a look with Jack, who's hovering close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. The Captain raises an expectant eyebrow, all the response Ianto needs to return his attention to the phone.

"Send it over," he says, matching the detective's grim-stark tone. "Let's see what you've got."

Behind him, Jack already has his cell out, calling in the team, and Ianto can't quite decide whether he wants to be thankful or glad for this distraction at such a pivotal stage of his own plans.

But he pushes the emotions down, focuses on the job, and most certainly does not linger over the gentle brush of Jack's fingers against his nape as he disengages.

* * *

It's harder to catch Jack's interest than Ianto had thought it would be, which actually raises his opinion of the man. Instead of immediately being hired for a quick shag, Jack sends him away, and Ianto has to resort to monitoring the Rift and hoping he can catch something coming through before Jack's team does.

The pteranadon is...unexpected, but useful.

He and Jack end up rolling across the floor of the warehouse, both breathless and a little giddy, and when they finally come to a stop Ianto is fully on top of Jack, their faces only centimeters apart.

It's absolutely the worst time in the world for Ianto's body to remember that he appreciates the male form just as much as the female.

(Perhaps it would be different if Lisa were still alive, if Ianto hadn't spent the last few months grieving for her. Maybe then Ianto would be able to force himself to his feet, make himself walk away from bright-dark blue eyes and messy sandy-brown hair and a brilliant, winded grin. But Lisa Hallett died in Canary Wharf, unable to survive as a half-converted Cyberman when UNIT cut the power, and Ianto, who had cried out to the Witch-King of the Nevermore when the tower began to burn and been shielded by the shadows themselves—well. Ianto can't bring himself to look away, not when he's been so very cold and alone since One fell. Not when Jack is so warm and vivid as he leans up for a kiss across the bare centimeters that separate them.)

Jack kisses him, and Ianto tells himself that it's all to further his schemes, that it's all for Lisa, but it's  _not._ It's for Ianto himself, and after a mere moment of lips and spice and warmth and big, gentle hands sliding into his hair, Ianto can't pretend any longer.

If Lisa were alive—

But she's not, and all the good intentions in the world won't stop Ianto from relishing the feel of it as Jack rolls them over, pins Ianto under him and grins down at him, so bright that it's hard to look right at him.

"I hope," Ianto manages after a breathless moment, "that this won't count as my job interview."

Jack laughs at that, sweet and happy, and this is the man Hartman hated so much? This is the man she raged about whenever she had the breath? He is everything that she tried so hard to be and never was, and Ianto can see why his people are all hand-picked and would follow him right into hell if he ordered it.

The fact that he can inspire such loyalty is terrifying. Ianto can already feel himself falling prey to that blinding charisma, that clear charm, and the worst part is that he  _doesn't care._

"Think of it as a signing bonus," Jack suggests, grin turning wicked as he slides a hand down over Ianto's cheek to cup his jaw. "I think we can safely say that you got the job when you decided to distract the dinosaur with a  _chocolate bar._  Congratulations, you're a Torchwood agent again. Do you want to die weird, or messy?"

"You say that like you can ever  _stop_ being one," Ianto grouses, just before he takes Jack's laughing mouth in another kiss.

There's guilt bubbling in his gut like acid, but Ianto pushes it down and gives himself one night, just one, to forget everything that's gone wrong.

(One night becomes two, and two turns to a week, and a week changes to a month. After that, Ianto stops trying to put a limit on this thing between them, because as long as Jack isn't pushing him away, Ianto will stay right at his side.

Jack will push him away soon enough, after all. He'll have to, because Ianto is a traitor, and anything less than Jack's fury and hurt will be far more than Ianto deserves.)

* * *

The others are out, chasing down leads, and Ianto has been left to coordinate from the Hub. They're all otherwise occupied at the moment, though, so he takes advantage of the brief lull to head out in the hopes of picking up lunch for everyone. Chinese, he decides as he pulls on his coat and steps out of the Tourist Office. Everyone likes Chinese, and it's easier to carry than pizzas.

But there's a shifter waiting for him outside, perched on the railing overlooking the water.

Ianto comes to a halt before her, eyes narrowing and fingers automatically twitching towards the slips of paper in his pocket. They're marked with runes and diagrams, a quick defense if he doesn't have time to draw any circles himself, and more than dangerous enough to—

"Peace," she says, raising her hands. "I'm just a messenger."

It's not as comforting as she likely wants it to be. Different kinds of witches rarely mingle outside of the Nevermore—they're all solitary creatures, for the most part, keeping apart from each other if not from humans. Ianto is a caster, and she's a shifter, and while there are many of the latter Ianto is one of the few of the former, and he's learned caution over the years.

"Yes?" he asks politely, even as he palms a fairly explosive diagram and readies the words that will activate it.

Her hands stay where they are, palms out, as if she knows what he's holding. It's likely she does. Even though she's wearing the shape of a small Spanish woman with long black hair, Ianto has no way of knowing what she's changed that he can't see. Many shifters have a fondness for giving themselves animal senses. As it is, with the woman three steps outside of the circle of protection drawn around the Hub, Ianto can't even tell if she's truly a woman, let alone who she really is.

"Azure Court wants an alliance," she says clearly but quietly. "We would treat with you, Lord of the Golden Court, to stand against the King."

Ianto goes still, breath frozen for an endless moment in his lungs.

Behind him, the shadows writhe.

"No," he says, and it doesn't matter that his voice breaks on that simple sound. "Treat against the Witch-King? You're mad."

She takes a gliding step forward, lowering her arms and flipping her hands over in supplication. "He will turn on you, caster. No one can give you what you seek." Clever black eyes regard him, and then full lips pull up into a fox's smile. "Or rather, what you sought. How interesting."

One more step and she will be trapped, powerless, within Ianto's wards.

She won't take it. Ianto already knows it; she's too clever to be caught so easily. All shifters are.

Bonelessly graceful, she prowls closer, always just a little too far away from the wards. "The King is cruel, capricious—"

"As is life," Ianto cuts in, because he knows witches and political maneuvering and just how long she will take to get to the heart of things if he doesn't force her hand. "Your point?"

"Azure Court will follow you, if you make a stand." It's blunt—far more blunt than Ianto expected a shifter to even contemplate being. "We will stand with you. We are willing to call you ally, Ianto Jones. All we ask is your favor if we put forth a candidate for the next King."

It's to be expected, Ianto reminds himself. He's one of the last casters, and the leader of those remaining. Azure Court is large and strong, but no more influential than any of the other Five Courts. They have few allies among the other witches. Ianto's support would change that, though he has little use for political power on his own.

But—

 _Lisa_.

Ianto shakes his head abruptly, a sharp, negative jerk to either side. "No," he repeats. "The Witch-King is my ally. You cannot turn me. Leave, shifter."

She hisses, and there it is, the beast within breaking through to the surface. It's an animal noise, something sharp and predatory and  _angry,_ but Ianto keeps his feet planted and his face blank.

But then the shifter laughs, low and furious. Her form ripples like water, the small Spanish woman sliding away to be replaced by a tall, slender black woman with silver hoops in her ears, dark hair cut shorter even than Ianto's. Her eyes are wide and kind, but the look on her face is malicious, and it doesn't sit right.

Evil will never fit on Lisa's face.

It's like a gunshot to the heart, seeing her again, some large-caliber bullet to the chest, which makes a big hole going in and a huge, gaping cavern going out, leaves Ianto entirely breathless and staggering. His hand clenches around the diagram in his pocket, but then wrenches away again.

If the shifter was looking for his weakness, she's found it. Ianto will never be able to harm her while she wears that face.

"How many months dead?" the shifter hisses, and it's Lisa's voice, sweet and low. "How many months out of the realm of the living, Ianto Jones, and she still affects you like this? Look well, because this is the last time you'll see her."

"No." Ianto spits the word at her, breathless and desperate, brought low by the ghost before him. "The King is a binder. He can—"

"But he won't," she counters, and it's merciless. "Onyx Court has not birthed a binder powerful enough to fully resurrect a soul in  _centuries._ What makes you think this one is different? His  _promise_? _"_ She huffs a laugh _,_ and contempt doesn't sit right on her face either, not while it's Lisa's face, Lisa who never looked at anyone with anything but kindness and warmth. "He's—"

A gun goes off, or a car backfires. The shifter whirls and leaps straight upwards, Lisa's image shattering like glass, and a coal-black raven hurtles into the sky and out of sight.

The sudden release of tension is like a little death.

Ianto staggers back another step and trips, falls to the ground right on his arse and can't bring himself to care one whit. His heart is pounding and his head is numb, and there's a soul-deep ache in his chest that won't go away. He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and tries to force it back down, but it won't go.

 _Lisa,_ he thinks, and all he wants in that moment is her, the  _real_ her, with her bright eyes and sweet smile and clever insight.

But Lisa has been dead for months now, ever since the fall of Torchwood One, and the help of a binder is Ianto's only hope of bringing her back.

Only the Witch-King is powerful enough to work such a feat of necromancy, so of course Ianto will follow him.

It's sense.

But then there are footsteps pounding up behind him, a strong hand landing on his shoulder, and Ianto looks up into the face of the one man whose smile can rival Lisa's, whose bright blue eyes have begun to eclipse her warm, dark ones.

"Ianto?" he demands, and there's worry in his face. His gun is at his side, held ready, and Ianto can smell the recent shot. Not a car backfiring, then. "What happened? Did she hurt you?"

They would have seen it over the CCTV cameras, Ianto realizes as Jack pulls him to his feet. If Tosh patched into them because he wasn't answering his comm, they would have seen the whole thing.

The diagram is a guilty weight in his pocket, for all that it's paper and nearly insubstantial. He is suddenly unspeakably glad he had no cause to use it. Of all the ways for his secret to come out, this would have been one of the worst.

"I'm fine," he manages, and it's true for the moment. "She...I think you scared her off." That's true, too, though Ianto isn't entirely certain whether it's good or bad. The witches of the Azure Court don't give up so easily. Not unless they believe they've already made their point.

"What was she?" Tosh asks, four paces behind Jack, her gun drawn but pointed at the ground. "I've never seen an alien change shape like that before."

"Neither have I," Jack agrees, and it's very much not happy. He holsters his gun and curls his fingers around Ianto's thin wrist, tugging him a step closer. "Come on, let's get inside. Tosh, see what you can get from the facial recognition program. It probably will be a waste of time with a creature that can change shape, but—"

"Just in case," Tosh finishes, very much a Torchwood mantra, and offers Ianto a quick smile.

Jack echoes the phrase, grimly concerned, as he leads Ianto back into the tourist office, his body like a wall keeping the rest of the world at bay. "Just in case."

Ianto wants to tell him to save his worry, to hold it for someone who needs it, is worthy of it, but his throat is too tight to speak and he keeps his peace.


	2. All men have aimed at, found and lost

Ianto is nearly thirteen before he realizes that his mother is not like other women, that most of the other boys' mothers don't carve symbols into their crockery to keep it from breaking, or ward their houses by carving runes to deter thieves into the threshold.

"They're just words," she says when Ianto asks her about them the first time, one and a half weeks shy of his birthday. Her smile is lovely, sweet and bright, and she's the kindest, most beautiful thing in Ianto's world. "Haven't I always told you that words have power?"

It's the kind of trite answer most adults give, but somehow, in this moment, it feels like she  _means_ it, like it's really that simple. Ianto looks into his mother's wise blue eyes for a long moment, gauging her tone and expression, and then nods once to show he understands.

The smile grows, and his mother lays a beaded leather cord in his hand, curls his fingers around it as though it's far more precious than it looks. "You'll understands," she murmurs, and it's like a prayer and an apology and a warning all at once. "Soon, you'll understand too, Ianto."

And he does. He wakes up on his fifteenth birthday with a hundred thousand symbols and circles in his head, a hundred ancient and unknown languages on his tongue and in his fingertips and it's  _brilliant._

But his mother is dead, one month cold in the ground, and when the Lady of the Sun and the Lord of the Moon, left and right hands of the Witch-King, step out of a rift in space right in front of him, Ianto is entirely unprepared for the world that is his birthright.

He survives, though. He's always been good at that.

(When Rupert Holmes drags him bodily into Torchwood One, spouting tales of aliens and Doctors and the regular near-end of the world, Ianto isn't half as surprised as he should be.

After the Nevermore, the eternally twilight world where magic is even more common than air and a thousand fantastical dreams come to life with every breath, it's all rather disappointingly underwhelming.)

* * *

Jack has never met anyone quite like Ianto Jones.

It's a thought he has often, whenever Ianto does something particularly surprising or glides through the Hub like an especially dangerous and silent butler and then breaks through his reserved shell with a dry, snarky quip that has Jack in stitches. Jack had reservations, at first, about bringing any of Hartman's former employees on board, but Ianto is...special.

Jack has never met anyone quite so special, actually, and even the death of one team member and the arrival of another can't distract him entirely. It's unnerving in a way things haven't been in a long time, how much he wants to  _know_ Ianto. He's survived the years since he landed here by being a little distant, even when he connects, and Ianto's making it impossible to stay that way. There's something about him that drags Jack right out of his reserve, back into the light, and Jack can't even regret it.

But it's dangerous, and it scares him, because Ianto is mortal and Jack is most emphatically not, and there's nothing that can come out of this but eventual and inevitable tragedy. So he takes a step back sometimes, take a moment to breathe air that doesn't smell like fresh-ground coffee and faint trace of burnt sugar and cream, and turns his eyes away.

(If he'd known what looking away would do, he wouldn't have, no matter the personal consequences. Ianto is worth more than that, regardless of Jack's fears.)

* * *

The Nevermore is a place that is part myth, part imagination, and entirely magical. The first time Ianto sees it, he is fifteen and a little too wild for the mortal world, a little too strange to ever fit in with his peers.

The Lord of the Moon is the one to take him out into the rush of it, because the Lord is a child at heart and ever looking to share the Nevermore's wonders with those who will appreciate them. Together, they sneak out of the Golden Court's hall right before breakfast, while the Lady of the Sun is still three cups of coffee away from conscious and in no state to stop them. Outside the great oaken doors of the manor it's yet twilight, as it ever is—but in the Nevermore it's always a strange sort of golden and lavender twilight, shot through with silver and cream. It's beautiful, with the sun hovering half-beyond the horizon on one side of the sky, and the moon mid-rise on the other. Ianto takes it in from the front steps of the Golden Court, willows and rowans bending around him, runes and symbols singing in the brick under his bare feet, and then he looks at the tall, lean man beside him.

The Lord of the Moon smiles back, wise as any wizard in a fairy tale, and curls a calloused hand around Ianto's skinny shoulder.

"Come on," he says gently. "This is your world now; don't you want to see it?"

And Ianto does, wants it more than anything in the world, because each street is different, every twist and turn of the maze-like roads reveals something he's only ever dared to dream, and it's everything he's never known was missing from his life.

At first glance the Nevermore is something right out of a fantasy novel; people wear swords and armor and tunics and long, flowing robes, and ride horses—or stranger creatures, things Ianto can't name but  _wants_ to because they're beautiful and wonderful and eerie.

But that's certainly not all the Nevermore is.

The modern world that Ianto just left is mixed in with everything else, flashes of the humanity that Ianto's familiar with tossed in among the surreal in a way that never quite manages to be jarring. A man sits on one street corner, dressed like something right out of  _Camelot,_ with a bow slung over one shoulder and a cell phone against his ear, growling something about tariffs and increases and stupid lawmakers. A few meters away, a woman with silver-and-lavender dragonfly wings is haggling with a woman dressed like a lawyer. They're all at peace, though, all easy together, and it's something just as magical as everything else, this  _acceptance._

Ianto takes it all in, watches a unicorn slip through the trees beyond the sidewalk, sees a man change into a cat and chase a mouse into an alley, and his head should be spinning with the strangeness of it all, but it's  _not._

This is more right than anything Ianto's ever witnessed in his life.

"We live as we want," the Lord of the Moon tells him, viewing the mad, hectic rush of life with a fond smile. "There are no constraints on us here. Everyone is free to be what they wish and do what they want."

A dragon passes overhead, low and lazy, wings burnished copper and body glowing gold, and then turns a lazy loop around the clock tower and becomes a woman with copper skin and white hair, an angel's gold-feathered wings stretched out to slow her descent.

"I can live here?" Ianto asks after a long moment. "I can...stay?"

He's fifteen and a little too wild for his father and sister, a little beyond their comprehension, and he doesn't hate them but he doesn't  _fit._ He's not like them, has never been since the moment of his birth, and it's glaringly obvious now, here, where he  _is_ one of them, where he might even have a place.

The Lord's hand finds his nape again, warm and strong, and the man tugs him a little closer, wraps an arm around his shoulders. "The Witch-King has said Talia and I can raise you," he murmurs. "We're to teach you about the Courts and the Lords and the power inside you, if you'll agree to learn it. Will you?"

All that Ianto can say to that is " _Yes._ "

* * *

There are passages to and from the Nevermore, scattered across the world and hidden from human sight by the simple fact that humans never manage to know exactly what they're looking at. Each of the Five Courts have their own secret passages, jealously guarded and passed down through the generations.

All but Ianto's Court.

Casters are different, a little separate from the others. They are the center of the five, the Golden Court, the balance. It's a tradition as old as the Courts themselves—Golden Court is stability and change, harmony and growth.

All the world is energy, to a caster, and those like Ianto can tap into it, use it, and tear open the veil between worlds with a few lines and a few symbols on the ground. It's the only reason that the Witch-King finds him useful—the King is otherwise famous in his disdain for any witch not from Onyx Court.

He hates the Golden Court especially, the Lord of the Moon told Ianto once, because for all the Witch-King is supposed to be in harmony with all five of the old Houses, this Witch-King is still very clearly Onyx Court, and casters have long been the only ones to fully counter the binders.

 _Politics, bah,_ Ianto thinks darkly, settling coffee mugs on a try for his hourly rounds. He has, by necessity, kept mostly abreast of the turnings of the Courts, but it's  _tiring._ Too many schemes and power-plays and attempts at backstabbing gone awry—Ianto is good at it, because of his level head and propensity for knowing everything, including other people's secrets, but he doesn't care to be.

He's Lord of the Golden Court by virtue of learning, rather than any desire for the position. The Lady of the Sun and the Lord of the Moon taught him how to navigate the Courts and the constant strain between the five factions, and so he was the best candidate to assume the position when the former Lady retired.

Ianto's never particularly wanted to be the leader of anything, but he's incapable of doing anything but his best now that he is.

(This betrayal is for them, his Court, too, because the Witch-King hates the Golden Court most fiercely of all and it shows. The Nevermore is connected to the Witch-King, the magic is an extension of the Witch-King, and if Ianto can do anything to ease the strain of the King's disregard he will, because there are casters who depend on the magic for everything, who make their homes in the Nevermore and suffer the King's hatred daily, and they're Ianto's responsibility too.)

Tosh is his first stop, and she gives him a small smile as he sets her coffee in front of her, though her attention is quickly drawn back to her computer and the search she's running. Ianto regrets that, more than little. He hates that he has to stay so distant from all of them, has to fool them into seeing him only as he wants to be seen. Maybe, in another life, he and Tosh could have been great friends.

Not in this one, though. Not with the secrets Ianto has to keep.

* * *

When Ianto finally drags himself home from dealing with Bernie and the ghost machine and Gwen killing—if accidentally—a man, he is weary to the bone, tired in more than just body. Torchwood seems to have the corner on emotional upheavals during traumatic moments.

But there is a man waiting for him in his apartment.

He looks up from the kitchen table as Ianto comes in, smiling just a little. He's older, looks somewhere around fifty, with crows' feet at the corners of his eyes and touches of white at his temples, but he's certainly not  _old_. There's a certain air of quiet energy to him, and his eyes are a grey so pale and clear that they're almost colorless, full of laughter and an aged, tempered wisdom that Ianto has only ever seen in one other being.

"Hamal," Ianto says in surprise, setting his bag by the coatrack. The man inclines his head, silent, and they study each other for a long moment.

At length, Ianto rolls his eyes and steps away from the door, drawling, "Your hair's gotten longer again."

The reserve vanishes without a trace, and the man beams. "Ah, yes. It does tend to do that, doesn't it?" Hamal says cheerfully, ignoring the loose braid of mink-brown hair that's long enough to coil on the chair beside him. He rises to his feet, setting his teacup down, and opens his arms. Ianto rolls his eyes again, but accepts the hug nevertheless. Hamal is still exactly as he was when he and Talia came to retrieve one of the last casters from the human world—he even smells the same, like sandalwood and jasmine, comfort to a fifteen-year-old boy losing everything he'd ever known.

"I missed you, my boy," the Lord of the Moon murmurs. "Court has gotten too quiet without you."

"Exactly the reason I left." Ianto leans back a little, pulling away, but smiles when Hamal looks at him with faintly wounded eyes. "It's been a long day, Hamal. Order dinner while I shower?"

That, at least, distracts the Lord of the Moon sufficiently that Ianto doesn't feel bad stepping away completely.

"Preferences?" Hamal calls from where he has his head buried in Ianto's stack of take-out menus.

"None," Ianto answers as he steps into the bathroom, shuts the door, and carefully locks it. Hamal still sees him as a teenager well out of his depth in a new world, and there's little Ianto can do to change the opinion of a man who's been alive since before Copernicus was born. Better to cut off his mothering at the pass—and before he can bring it into Ianto's shower. "Choose whatever you like."

Hamal makes a delighted noise. "Oh, Talia never says that to me! How exciting."

It is only with great restraint that Ianto refrains from rolling his eyes again. Sometimes he wonders how the Lady of the Sun—who is firm, fierce, driven, and blunt to the point of trauma—has managed not to kill Hamal in the centuries they've worked together. Hamal is a wise old man with the spirit of a child, and while Ianto loves him all the more for it, it does become frustrating after a while—even more so because Ianto suspects that's part of the reason Hamal makes no attempt to rein himself in.

But...it's been a long time since Ianto's apartment has had another soul in it, and somehow the scent of sandalwood and jasmine transforms a bare, dull space, empty of everything save for bad memories, into a place that Ianto is nearly willing to call  _home._

"So," he says casually when he steps out of the bathroom, pulling on his shirt. "Does Talia know you're here?"

He pretends he doesn't take great delight in the aggrieved look Hamal shoots him. That would just be petty.

* * *

It's only when all of the food is gone and the tea has been poured that Hamal finally sobers, dancing eyes settling into something far more somber.

"The Witch-King has been mobilizing," he says after a long pause. "He's been calling up his generals and whatever supporters he can find among the Five Courts. To a less trusting mind it might look as if he were preparing for a war."

Ianto tenses just a little, staring down into the pale gold liquid in his cup, and doesn't answer.

Hamal surveys him closely for a moment, and then says, with deadly precision and a falsely cheery tone that would fool all but those who know him well, "Of course, that can't be it, because the Witch-King would certainly call Talia and myself were that the case. Unless..."

Pale eyes settle unwaveringly on Ianto's hunching shoulders. "Unless," Hamal murmurs, deceptively mild, "the King in his infinite wisdom believes that he cannot trust his knights to follow him in this. But I wonder what could possibly be happening, and who it's happening to, that he believes his Sun and Moon would turn on him."

Hamal has always been too clever for Ianto's good. This is the very reason that Ianto has cut off contact of late—Hamal and Talia might be servants of the Witch-King, but together they can call a council and block his actions for a time, and Ianto can't afford to have that happen.

"Hamal—" he tries.

The Lord of the Moon waves him to silence with a flick of his long fingers. "Hush, child. He who would pick the roses must bear with the thorns. Now." He folds his hands in front of him and raises an inquiring brow. "You have survived the fall of Torchwood One, which claimed over eight hundred lives, and have been a Torchwood agent for six years, which I understand defies rather a lot of odds. Fortune has a fickle heart and a short memory, so would you care to tell me why you are testing her yet again, Ianto?"

It takes more effort than it should for Ianto to straighten his shoulders and meet Hamal's stern eyes. It's ridiculously hard to find the right words, as well. Ianto hesitates, rolling his first choice of excuses over in his mouth before dismissing them as something that will never fool Hamal. Another second, trying to think of anything, anything at all that will work and not be the truth—which will not work at all—and Hamal is still waiting, still patient, pale eyes unwavering.

Ianto hates him even as he loves him, in that moment. Hates him  _because_ he loves him, perhaps, and this would all be a thousand times easier if the Lord of the Moon was still the dark and terrifying figure who appeared out of the night to spirit Ianto away without a word of warning.

But that imposing crafter has become simply Hamal, who is kind to children and animals, who lets birds perch on his shoulders and gets ink stains all over his clothes when he practices his calligraphy. Who has been more of a father to Ianto than his biological father ever was.

Ianto does not want to lie to this man.

It's a knock on the door that saves him, in the end. Ianto leaps to his feet automatically, then pauses, glancing back at the crafter in silent question. Hamal just smiles, a little aggrieved and a little sheepish, and nods.

Ianto reaches the door just in time to save it from being kicked off its hinges.

"Hamal!" The whirlwind that bursts through the opening is tall and lean, with hair the color of apricots bound up in braids and twisted around her head like a crown. Her eyes are like good whiskey and her clothes, like Hamal's, are business-casual but made of a fabric that no Earthly tailor has ever touched. Ianto just shrinks back a little as she passes, attempting to make himself blend in a bit more with the wall.

Talia is still ridiculously terrifying, at times.

"Talia," Hamal answers cheerfully. "I see you've been working on your temper; I'm sure Ianto is pleased that he won't have to replace his door. Again."

Talia snarls wordlessly, shaking a finger under his nose. "Oh, shut up! You failed to  _tell me_  where you were going, Hamal, and you  _left me_ with  _two months' backlog_ of gods-be-damned  _paperwork._ I am so close to gutting you like a fish.  _So_ close.  _Do not tempt me,_ Hamal."

"Tea?" Ianto inquires blandly, deciding that it's safe enough to step in now that she's vented, and closes the door. "Or I have coffee. Talia?"

With a huff, the summoner throws herself into the nearest chair and crosses her arms over her chest. "Coffee," she says sharply, "and don't think I don't know just how often he ends up skulking in here, boy. Next time he does it, you're to message me. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Ianto agrees instantly, and tries to convey ' _sorry, but even unarmed she's scarier than you'll ever manage to be'_ with his eyebrows when Hamal shoots him a wounded look.

"Good," Talia approves, looking satisfied. She raises an imperious brow. "Now. Coffee. Are you eating? More than just take-away, Ianto, I've _warned_  you about that before."

"Yes, ma'am." Ianto starts the coffee, trying not to roll his eyes. The Lady of the Sun is a mother hen armed with a ten-pound claymore and a vicious fighting style that makes grown men weep openly in terror. It's...a mix that has taken more than a little getting used to.

But she smiles at him, just a touch, and Hamal laughs, and the kitchen is warm and bright for the first time in weeks, smelling of sandalwood and jasmine, frankincense and myrrh. Ianto pours coffee for the three of them, strategically positions the sugar bowl where Talia can surreptitiously add her usual twelve or fifteen teaspoons of sweetener to the mug, and then retakes his seat.

Hamal doesn't try to raise the subject of the Witch-King again, and Ianto has never been more grateful.


	3. Old civilizations put to the sword

Sometimes, Ianto thinks, it would be...not  _easier,_ but something close, if Lisa had managed to survive the fall of Torchwood One, even as a half-converted Cyberman. It would mean pain for her, of course, and Ianto would never wish that on her, but it would make everything clearer to his muddled mind.

As it is, Lisa has been dead for months now, and a part of Ianto can't help but move on.

Jack has so very much to do with that.

* * *

 _Six hours,_ Ianto thinks, and there's a note of quiet panic to it, an edge of horror and terror that wouldn't exist if he were entirely devoted to his cause. He can't  _help_ it, though; Lisa has been dead,  _is_ dead, and Ianto has never been good at clinging to the past, not when his future looks like Jack, walks and talks and acts like Jack, pulls him forward into life whether he wants to be there or not.

 _Six hours,_ he thinks, and it's an executioner's axe, a death bell ringing before a burning, the end of everything Ianto has been clinging to for months now. The diagram is complete, from the Tree of Life to the Gate of Souls with the Eye of Eternity to tie it all together and the Maiden's Veil to tear through the barriers between the worlds. Ianto can feel like an itch beneath his skin, a burn, a whisper in the darkness. It calls to him, wants to be used, but Ianto doesn't want to use it.

Hasn't ever wanted anything less.

And then a basketball hits him in the chest, the others filing past as they head out to eat, and Jack is laughing with Gwen.

Jack doesn't even glance at him as he passes.

Ianto has always excelled at being invisible, but never before has it filled his gut with acid like this, twisted his heart in such a way and dragged it back into darkness.

Hands clenching on the ball, Ianto takes a deep, slow breath and then lets it out again.

Beneath his feet, painted into the concrete floor of the Hub, drawn across the walls and over every inch of free space, the circle glimmers with stray sparks of light.

Six hours turns to three, and Ianto carefully does not think about what the end of his preparations means for him, for Jack, for Torchwood.

All he can think about is Lisa's sweet, bright smile, and the way her eyes have never, ever looked right through him without pausing.

(And if his heart is an aching, painful knot in his chest, if all he wants in the entire world is to have Jack duck back through the door and invite him out, too—well. Ianto never gets what he wants, hasn't since he was thirteen years old, and he'll adjust. He will. He will.)

* * *

Ianto can feel it in his bones when the sun begins to set. It's a caster's instinct, because change is a powerful thing, and a change in something as vast as the sun and the day is especially so.

There's a far-off twinge, too, like the memory of a bee sting, and Ianto knows that somewhere far distant from this world someone has dropped blood on the twin of Ianto's diagram. Someone has completed their preparations as well.

He takes a breath and steps into the center of the array, raises his arms like a conductor before his orchestra, and flicks his hands.

The trappings of Torchwood—computers and desks and machinery and the detritus of lives spent in a rush—fade away completely, leaving a vast, empty space around him. The Hub feels hollow like this, unreal, but Ianto shoves down the impression and draws a long, slim knife from his pocket. The blade glimmers with a faint sheen of crimson and blue, the edges traced with a ghost of gold, and Ianto doesn't bother to brace himself as he wraps his palm around the edges and lets the knife cut deep.

Blood splatters the ground as he opens his hand, and Ianto sets his teeth to keep from wavering. "Blood of my body, bind the halves," he says formally, and it's not  _necessary,_ not really, but all languages, all symbols have power, no matter how worn and stretched thin, and the English language is no exception despite its widespread use. "Edges of soul, stitch together. Spirit, be as a blade—tear through. Open."

Light blazes, brilliant gold and shimmering red, bright azure and snowy white and dark, depthless black all wound together, and then something  _pulls._

Ianto brings his hands together, draws the rune Raidho in the air between his palms, and then passes his bloody hand over it. "Open," he says again. "Part the ways. Bring them through the aether."

The array unfurls like a flower opening, light spreading along the lines in elegant awakening, drawing power from Ianto's veins and the blood he's spilled. It shimmers and settles, and in the space between two seconds a man appears, tall and proud and crowned with darkness.

"Witch-King Madrigal," Ianto murmurs, going down on one knee before the man who owns his soul.

The Witch-King looks down at him, as he ever does, eyes wild and arrogant as no other Ianto has ever seen, and he nods. "Caster," he returns. "Stunning work, as ever, though only to be expected from the Golden Court's prodigy."

The half-compliment sets Ianto's teeth on edge, because even now, he has no loyalty to this man, no ties beyond a bargain made in desperation. "My king," is all he allows himself to say as he stands, though, because the Witch-King is mad and Ianto is no fool.

The light behind him shimmers, and one after another, soldiers in Onyx Court's black uniforms begin to step through the portal, binders with their leashed spirits wound around them like veils of darkness. Ianto counts ten, fifteen, maybe even more. It's straining the gate—he was told to expect one company of ten without familiars, not this series of knights, and the power is too much for an array written without Ezekiel's Balance.

A quiet takeover, the Witch-King had said. He would lead ten soldiers through while the team was out and Ianto would make a gate large enough for them all, would let them into Torchwood proper so they could occupy it like a foreign territory. Then the witches would control the last real Torchwood base, stranding Jack's team without their necessary resources, and there would be no risk of the Nevermore being discovered. It was a kinder fate than had met Torchwood Four when they discovered the Witch-King, so Ianto had agreed.

But he hadn't agreed to this. Not in any way. He'd been so careful with his wording, his phrasing, so that the boundaries would be clear.

Ten soldiers, he had said.

One gate drawn using the Maiden's Veil, he had said.

You'll bring Lisa back to life if I do this, he had said.

 _Warlock,_ he thinks now, because Ianto can feel the backlash building in his bones, straining under his skin, and it  _hurts._

It hurts almost as much as this betrayal.

"Sire," he manages, even as the appearance of another knight and bound spirit makes him waver, stagger, and reach for something to steady him. There's nothing, though, and Ianto falls, tumbles to the hard floor with a thud that jars his bones. He hisses, feels blood from his cut palm pooling under his fingers.

The Witch-King raises one dark brow, stepping around Ianto without concern and facing his knights. "Ah," he says carelessly. "Didn't you know, caster? A death must be fresh to re-bind a departed soul. Perhaps, had you asked in the very moment I pulled you out of Torchwood One, your lady-love might have been saved. But now? There is no binder in existence who could do what you ask."

Ianto closes his eyes, grits his teeth even as the gate keeps stretching, draining his power.  _Warlock,_ he thinks again.  _Our king the oath-breaker._ It is a moment too late to recall Hamal's words about not being included in the Witch-King's mobilization, and that alone should have told Ianto that something was not right with this, but he had been blind, been deaf and dumb to anything but his own hurt and grief. The Lady of the Sun and the Lord of the Moon are the Witch-King's most loyal followers, his hands in combat and court and everything else, and though they love Ianto—

But they will not—cannot—follow a king who has been proved an oath-breaker, and for all of Ianto's own foolishness, the king had made him an oath to return Lisa to life.

That's been shattered now, and all that remains is the array Ianto cannot alter, the gate he cannot close while the other side remains open. He sets his teeth on a broken cry of rage, feels tears that are equally fury and heartache on his cheeks, but can't gather the strength to push himself upright again.

Another knight in Onyx Court colors, and that same blackness is edging Ianto's vision now, the ache in his bones nearly too much to bear.

Of course, that's the moment Jack and Owen burst through the door, weapons drawn.

"Ianto!" Jack cries, bringing his gun to bear on the Witch-King, and could Ianto do more than simply cling to consciousness, he would approve of Jack's ability to always pick out the most dangerous target on instinct.

But the Witch-King simply laughs, turning back to face Jack and Owen, Gwen sliding in behind them. "And you must be the Captain," he says archly. "How nice to finally meet the man who nearly turned my own servant against me—would have, even, if not for your lack of care!"

The gun wavers, just slightly, and Jack's eyes flick down to Ianto, confusion and dawning realization in the blue depths.

"Ianto?" he breathes.

Ianto gathers all of the strength he can possibly spare and bares his teeth at the Witch-King. "I call you oath-breaker," he hisses. "Warlock, you are not my king!"

Something very much like madness flickers in the king's eyes, and he disregards the Torchwood team entirely as he leans down to curl his fingers in Ianto's collar. The contempt in his eyes is dark and feverish, a living thing. "Ah, but I am not the only oath-breaker here," he murmurs. "You and I are alike, Ianto Jones. I will not allow you to forget that, even if you are to die here and now."

A gun cocks, and Jack growls, "Step away from him. I won't warn you again."

The Witch-King glances up at Jack and smiles, and it's terrifying. "My dear Captain, surely you cannot forgive him his betrayal. That's a weakness no leader can allow, after all. Though, I suppose, Ianto is sweet enough to give anyone a second thought."

Ianto's skin crawls at the implication, false as it is, but he has to grit his teeth against another surge of power from the array and can't refute it.

And then he realizes that four of his teammates went out, and there are only three here.

 _Tosh,_ he thinks with a sudden, desperate swell of hope.  _Tosh must be nearby. She'll need time._

It takes just about everything that Ianto has left to fight the gate's imminent overload and push himself to his knees at the same time, but he manages. The array wants to break, wants to snap under the weight of more power than it is built to contain passing through it, and Ianto can't change it as he normally would, not when he's attempting to hold both sides—here and in the Nevermore—in balance.

But one of a caster's first lessons is always in containing a diagram gone awry, and this will be little different. The backlash will be more powerful, and there's a fair chance that it will kill Ianto to direct and release it, but—

 _Lisa,_ he thinks, but already the grief is muted, more fury than anything else, and that's a sign he's already begun to move on, as much as he might not want to.

But—

He looks at Jack, sees the darkness in those blue eyes, the unwavering grip on his pistol, and says a last farewell to an old love.

With a breath, with a memory of their first and last kisses, with a whisper of regret and sorrow and longing and deep, soft fondness, Ianto lets Lisa go.

He's been saying goodbye for weeks now, and he just never realized it.

Ianto sinks his teeth into the inside of his lip, bites down until he tastes blood, and pushes himself to his feet.

"No," he tells the Witch-King, meeting those mad black eyes straight on. "No, you don't get to pretend you are anything like  _him._ " He spits the word at the binder, and it feels like freedom, like flying. "You're not my king, not my master,  _warlock_.My loyalty is mine to give, and you don't have it. He does."

The knife is still in Ianto's hand, blade bright and shining. To break an array of this size requires far less strength than it took to activate it, which is fortunate because Ianto has none to spare. But he is the conduit of the power in the array, the means through which the magic that is a part of everything becomes something the runes can channel and use.

Break the channel, and the array will break in turn.

Owen snarls something fierce and warning as Ianto brings the blade down, slashing a deep cut down the length of one arm, then switching hands and doing the same to the other arm. But Ianto isn't listening,  _can't_ listen. The magic is singing in his veins, running down his arms just like the crimson blood, falling to the array in drips and splattering drops. But it only took three drops to activate it in the beginning, and too much blood to an array is even worse than not enough.

Light glitters again, dangerously bright, and Ianto grits his teeth, hopes that Tosh will take this chance to do whatever it is she's planning, grabs the edges of the tear between worlds, and  _wrenches_ it out of place.

Soldiers scream as the gate finally snaps, a wash of loosed power flooding the room like the lash of a whip. It sends several of them spinning back into darkness, knocks out the rest and raises welts on Ianto's skin, brings tears of pain to his eyes, but he doesn't let go, pours everything of himself into tearing the damned gate apart, here and in the Nevermore.

As he does, a shot rings out, piercing and deafening.

There's a cry, and then everything goes dark.

* * *

Jack sees the crowned man fall, half a heartbeat before Ianto does, and feels his heart stop. For one mad moment, he wonders if his shot went astray, if his bullet hit Ianto somehow instead of the stranger. But then blood blooms on the stranger's chest, stark against the white of his shirt, and Ianto chooses that moment to groan softly, rolling over. His eyelids flutter, but don't open.

Then the Hub's lights come on, sudden and blinding, and the strange diagram of lines beneath their feet shatters like thin glass, like shadows before the sun, and vanishes completely. Tosh ducks out of the corner when she'd been playing with the wiring, mouth set in a satisfied line, and joins the rest of the Torchwood team.

 _Jack's_ team, and whatever has happened here can't change that, not when Ianto has made his loyalties clear, helping them when he easily could have turned away.

 _Ianto,_ Jack thinks, and can't help but recall the stranger's words about a lack of care on his part nearly turning Ianto away from them.  _It won't happen again, no matter what this is here._

_I won't look away again._

But before he can say anything, do anything, the crowned man is rising to his feet again, despite the bullet that is so clearly in his heart, and his black eyes are entirely mad.

" _No_ ," he hisses _. "No,_ this isn't the end of it." Something in the air around him ripples, shimmers, and falls away like water, and the blood is gone. The thing writhes on the ground for a moment before disappearing, but the man doesn't spare it so much as a glance.

He saves that for Ianto's still form, for the bloodied knife beside him, and takes a step forward.

This time, it's Owen who puts a bullet in his chest, though Jack isn't far behind.

"No," Jack says, grim. "Your fight is with us now. Leave him alone."

The man looks at him for a long moment, weighing, and then breaks into a wide, insane smile. "Ah," he murmurs, and the change in temperament is jarring. "Yes. The Lord of the Golden Court has named me oath-breaker, and that is not an insult that can go unanswered. I will take you, little mortals. That is a good price for his insolence, is it not?"

He raises a hand, and the shadows around the edges of the room are suddenly overwhelming, a wave of darkness sweeping around them, over them, substantial in the same moment as they're intangible. Jack sucks in a breath and chokes on unrelenting blackness, and then he knows no more.

* * *

Awareness returns slowly, along with the pain.

Ianto takes a breath, surprised that he can, because breaking an array while it's in use is quite possibly the most foolish thing he's even done, next to trusting the Witch-King.

But there's only silence around him, and that's not right.

It hurts, but Ianto forces his eyes open and his body upright. The ache in his arms is worst of all, a burning, tearing pain that steals his breath and makes him close his eyes for a long moment, fighting off the dizzy darkness that threatens to overwhelm him.

When he opens them again, the Hub is still silent and motionless, empty of everything living. Even the shadows are gone, and Ianto knows very well what that means.

The Witch-King has played his trump card, his last defense as a binder, and returned to the Nevermore through the Way of Shadows, taking Jack and Tosh and Owen and Gwen along with him.

Footsteps on the metal stairs make him look up. Somehow, it's no surprise to find Hamal there, his usually cheerful face set in lines of weary grief. He's not dressed as a human businessman anymore, but the Lord of the Moon. In place of the charcoal slacks and blue oxford are a white shirt, dove-grey tunic, and black breeches, tall brown boots and an archer's wrist- and arm-guards. His longbow is unstrung and slung over his back, and his quiver is closed and hung on his belt beside his two long knives, but he looks nevertheless ready for war.

"My dear boy," he says as he comes to a halt before Ianto. Nothing more, but there's something akin to disappointment in his gaze, and Ianto can't bear it. He closes his eyes again, buries his face in his aching hands, and wishes that the entire world would just...leave him to grieve in peace, if only for a moment.

Strong hands close over his wrists, tugging his hands away from his eyes. He doesn't look up, but he doesn't have to in order to recognize Talia's grip, even through her black wyvern-hide gloves. One of her hands closes around both of his wrists, holding them in her lap, and the other curls around the back of his neck, tipping his head forward to rest on her shoulder.

"Foolish, foolish boy," she murmurs, but it's full of relief rather than anger. "Challenging the Witch-King like that, without even waiting for us to help you, were you trying to die? Idiot child."

"I just...wanted her back," Ianto manages, all the justification he will ever give for his actions. All the justification he  _has,_ in the end. "She was gone and I couldn't— They were  _all_ gone, and even if I was always a witch, never quite one of them, I  _couldn't—_ "

"Hush," Hamal says gently, kneeling beside the two of them and settling one hand in Ianto's hair. "Grief makes fools of us all, in the end. Are you well, Ianto?"

Ianto closes his eyes, forces back the upwelling of emotion at having the two knights by his side,  _on_ his side, even after everything he's done. "I named the Witch-King an oath-breaker," he says after a moment. It's an answer, if not a complete one. "As head of the Golden Court, that means more than any witch in a lesser position saying the same, right? It's a—"

"A challenge," Talia finishes for him, her voice dry. "I suppose that's why he took your team—insurance that you won't actually move against him."

For the first time, Ianto registers the lack of Onyx Court knights around them, and blinks carefully. Talia is wearing her claymore strapped across her back, and it's been rewrapped in its covering cloth, but there's a bit of blood on the hilt that she missed in cleaning it. "You—"

"Did you really think we wouldn't be watching, after learning that the king was mobilizing?" Hamal asks, sounding a little wounded. "His first mistake, my boy, was giving you to us to raise. His second was underestimating what that would mean for us—and him—in the long run."

Talia cuffs Ianto gently on the back of the head, then rises to her feet in one smooth, graceful motion. "It's our duty to make sure that any challengers with a solid claim can meet the Witch-King fairly, in single combat," she says, tugging her gloves back into place and resettling her crimson tunic. Her eyes are burning, though her expression is set. "How soon will you be able to open another gate, boy?"

Ianto looks between the two of them, mentally judging power levels and the necessary symbols, and then factoring in his own weariness. "An hour before I can start an array," he says. "At the most. And then another half an hour to complete it, on the outside."

She and Hamal exchange a long glance that holds an entire conversation in its depths, and then the Lady nods. "All right. The nearest natural gate I know is over two hours away, so your way will be quicker. In the meantime, we'll need a plan."

Hamal settles on his knees, tilting his head in consideration. "You're better in close quarters," he says after a moment. "I'll escort Ianto, and you will find his friends and make sure the king doesn't use their safety as leverage. Acceptable?"

Her mouth tightens a bit in distaste, but Talia nods anyway. "Acceptable. But if the boy gets hurt and you could have done  _anything_ to prevent it, Hamal, I will—"

"Gut me, skin me, filet me, then roast me over dragon-fire and feed my remains to a pack of dire-wolves," Hamal recites with the weary air of a child facing an often-taught lesson. "We had this same conversation before you let us walk through the Nevermore without you for the first time, and we have had this same conversation many times since. I am aware, Talia."

"Well. So long as you are," Talia says almost cheerfully, and pats him on the head like a particularly clever puppy. Hamal bears it with as much dignity as he's able, which isn't a lot.

Ianto laughs at them, and it's only after he does so that he realizes how long it's been since he last felt this light.

Despite everything that's gone wrong, despite the betrayal, Ianto has picked a side at last. He's declared himself, decided to risk everything for those he's loyal to, and it's  _incredible_ how simple the entire world seems right now _._


	4. All things fall and are built again

Jack is not overly fond of cells, but at least this one has a fairly decent view.

"Is that...?" Tosh, who has her face nearly pressed to the barred window beside him, trails off in wonder at the sight of the creature making its way past.

Admittedly, Jack's restraint isn't a lot better. He leans forward, too, his eyebrows rising.

Gwen's the one who answers, pressed right up against Jack's other side and just as wide-eyed. "A unicorn? I think so."

Well. It's quite clear they're not in Kansas anymore, though the Medieval-chic decor already rather gave that away.

Owen is on the far side of the cell, pretending that he's above their gaping, but Jack can see him twitching every time something really fantastical walks by. He also drooled a bit when a couple of green-skinned women with leaves growing in their hair started dancing naked in the street.

They watch the graceful white unicorn pick its delicate way down the cobblestone street, and then sit back, all of them fairly speechless.

Surprisingly, it's Gwen—who's been mostly quiet so far—who breaks the silence. "So this all has something to do with Ianto?" she asks softly.

It's the very question they've all been avoiding since they woke up in here several hours ago. Jack chews on the inside of his cheek, debating how to answer.

"It looked like a deal gone bad," Owen says flatly. "Tea-boy must have been trying to do something, and he got in over his head. That madman didn't seem like the type to hold his end of the bargain."

When they all look at him in surprise, he scowls darkly at them. "What? Just because I don't like the tea-boy I can't be insightful? He barely survived the destruction of Torchwood One, saw pretty much everyone he knew killed by Cybermen, Daleks, and Hartman's mad schemes, and you think he wouldn't be a little off his rocker afterwards? A deal with the devil seems like a minor reaction, if you want my professional opinion."

"Doctor Harper," Jack says, unable to stifle a small smile. He forgets, sometimes, because Owen is a prickly bastard, but he's a good doctor. One of the best.

Owen levels a threatening finger at him, scowl deepening. " _This_ would be why I suggested psych evals, Harkness. Going to brush me off again? Say it's a waste of time?"

"No, Owen," Jack offers, placating, as he raises his hands in surrender. "You're right, and it was very wrong of me to suggest otherwise."

With a sniff, Owen settles back against the stone wall. "Good. Now, what are we doing about Ianto?"

A sudden clatter makes them all spin back to the window, where a pair of heavy leather boots has come into view at street level. The boots take two steps past, then pause and turn, and a blond man in green and brown slides down the wall to sit on the sidewalk beside their window, long legs stretched out in front of him. There's a deep gold band of cloth around one bicep, embroidered with a twisting Chinese dragon done in silver thread, and he's wearing what looks suspiciously like a scimitar on his belt and metal bracers on his forearms.

"Well," the stranger says cheerfully. "Lovely day, isn't it?" He casts a glance back at them for a brief second before turning to the street again, and then says more quietly, "You wouldn't happen to be meaning Ianto Jones, would you, gents?"

"Lovely," Owen mutters. "We're being eavesdropped on by an extra from  _Robin Hood: Men in Tights._ Why'd I get out of bed this morning?"

The man laughs at him cheerily enough, and strips off the thin black gloves he's wearing, letting them drop and then turning his hands over to show them the runes inked onto the backs. "Peace, healer," he murmurs. "I'm one of his Court, and I'd never do a fellow caster harm. There aren't enough of us as it is."

Tosh leans past Jack's shoulder, squinting a little to get a better look at the symbols on the man's skin. "Those are Norse runes, aren't they? Um..."

"Uruz, for speed and strength," the man says, sounding pleased at her insight. "Eihwaz, for enlightenment and endurance." He shows them the palms and the two additional runes there. "Laguz for healing, and Algiz for protection. I'm not a strong caster, but my runes do their work."

"Caster?" Gwen asks in confusion. "Court? What do you mean?"

"Lady Sun and Lordy Moon," the stranger exclaims, waving a dramatic hand. "You've really no idea of any this, have you? Witches have five houses, or clans—we call them courts. Azure Court for the shifters, Vermillion Court for the summoners, Golden Court for the casters, White Court for the crafters, and Onyx Court for the binders. Casters like myself and the lord, we put our runes on things to affect them. Circles, letters, languages, arrays—that's our power. Not many of us, these days, but we make do."

"And that man?" Tosh asks softly. "The one who brought us here?"

The man's voice darkens, and he pulls his gloves back on with short, sharp motions. "Ah. You'd be speaking of the Witch-King, I believe. He's Onyx Court, though he should be above the politics, by rights. King's job, yeah? Keep the peace, don't show favor, let the world keep on turning. Too bad he's pants at it, and mad as a March hare to top it off."

Jack debates with himself for a moment, but the stranger seems chatty enough, and there doesn't seem to be any other way to get information right now. "Ianto called the king a warlock. Is there—?"

"He did?" the man interrupts, and he actually pulls away from the wall, turning to look straight at them with wide, startled green eyes. "You're sure? Lord Ianto called him a warlock where others could hear it? In public?"

"More or less," Owen answers, rolling his eyes. "Bunch of soldiers in black heard him. And us. Who are you again?"

"Mercy. Mercy, mercy," the man mutters, tugging worriedly at his gloves and then touching his scimitar lightly. "I'm Remus, Keeper of the Dawn Gate. And yes, there's quite a difference between a witch and a warlock, if that's what you were to ask. A witch keeps his or her word—always. If we don't, it breaks something in our magic, corrupts it and turns it bad. That's a warlock, someone with their magic gone bad from breaking an oath. Warlocks can't be Witch-King—Lord Ianto just challenged His Majesty's right to the throne, unless I'm mighty mistaken."

With a clatter of metal and leather, Remus rises to his feet, just barely avoiding tripping over his own sword. "Mercy, I've got to tell the rest of the Court. If there's a challenge on, no telling what the king might do. Best be prepared for a war with Onyx, if it comes to that. Excuse me then, ladies and gents, I must be off."

He hurries off down the street, dodging a pair of women with blue hair and a man carrying an eagle before ducking around a corner and out of sight.

Jack watches him go, more confused than ever.

" _Lord_ Ianto?" Owen manages after a moment, slightly strangled, and Jack can't help it anymore. He laughs.

* * *

It's an unspeakable relief when the gate opens smoothly, the diagram perfectly drawn. The hum of the magic still makes Ianto wince, sensitive to even properly controlled power right now. He can feel it in his bones, in his blood, like muscles overused for the first time, and it's overwhelmingly unpleasant.

He's going to have to face the Witch-King like this, though, so he'd best get used to it quickly.

Talia immediately steps away from the gate, pulling off one glove. "Boy, give me your knife. I'll do this the simple way."

Wordlessly, Ianto passes it over, because he knows that tone.

The knife nicks one of Talia's fingertips easily enough, and she tosses it back, then sweeps one arm out in a grand gesture that leaves two drops of scarlet blood behind. "Come forth, Sylph! Come forth, Dryad!"

The air before her shimmers, then parts, and in a swirl of wind a creature with pale blue skin and a cloud of ghost-white hair drops to her knees on the ground, head bent. Next to her, a twist of jade light bring another kneeling figure, this one with green skin and hair like freshly turned earth. They're similar in that they look too perfect to be human, all bare, slender limbs and graceful bodies and pointed ears, cat-eyes and nails like claws. The elements that birthed them still hold them, the air spirit's hair whirling in an unfelt breeze, the earth spirit with her feet rooted in the ground.

Even after seeing them so many times before, even after living in the Nevermore for half a decade, Ianto still thinks of them as some of the strangest beings he's ever encountered.

"Mistress," Sylph murmurs, looking up through a tangle of white hair. Her eyes are nearly colorless, a breathy blue like clouds in the dawn, and her teeth are pointed. "What would you have of us?"

Dryad looks up as well, golden-eyed and wild, vines curling like tattoos beneath her skin. "Command us, Mistress," she echoes, and there's the buried, ancient power of a mountain in her voice.

"There are humans here," Talia tells them. "Four humans from Earth, held by the Witch-King. Lead me to them."

There's a whisper of power so vast and ancient that it nearly makes Ianto's eyes cross, and then Sylph vanishes, her body bursting apart into tiny gusts of air and dispersing. Dryad shimmers for a moment before she fades back into the ground like water being absorbed, and the earth trembles slightly before settling again. Talia nods to herself, then turns to Ianto and Hamal.

"Don't lose the challenge," she says, sharp and fierce. "Don't you dare, boy." She tugs Ianto forward into a brief, hard hug and then is gone, striding away towards the center of the town.

Hamal watches her go with a fond smile, sighing a little to himself. "She's correct, as ever," he murmurs, glancing at Ianto. "You can't lose this challenge. It's the first true one in decades. The Nevermore needs this."

"A new king?" Ianto asks, glancing at the Lord. He knows that Hamal and Talia both consider themselves loyal to the  _position_ of Witch-King, more than the person who holds the title, but there hasn't been a new Witch-King in over two hundred years, since the current king killed his predecessor in challenge and took the throne, and then refused to give it up when Onyx Court's cycle was through.

But Hamal is already shaking his head. "Change," he corrects. "The position has never been held by one Court for so long before. Madrigal should never have been able to keep his seat once Onyx's cycle was finished, but Azure Court's candidate was too weak to force him to give it up." He looks at Ianto and smiles a little wryly. "Perhaps it is fitting that you are the one to challenge him—Golden Court has always supported the balance of power more than any Court, and Madrigal has overturned it entirely. The Lords of each Court  _need_ to share their power and take their turn as Witch-King every five years. Otherwise the Nevermore grows stagnant and the magic fades. Just look at the Golden Court now."

Ianto thinks of the mere fifteen members of his Court compared to the hundreds it once had, of how it's been six years since the last caster was born, and sets his jaw. "Onyx should be the last stage before it starts over with Azure," he says. "Just as it was supposed to. By rights it's Azure's turn again this year, isn't it? That's the fitting part."

"Indeed," Hamal says cheerfully, even as brings his longbow forward and strings it. It's only a few inches shorter than he is, far more powerful than the smaller recurve bow he normally carries. "Off we go, then. Best to present your challenge before Madrigal can dismiss the Courts, hmm?"

He leads the way towards the Witch-King's hall, humming softly under his breath. Ianto falls into step with him after a moment, taking slow, careful breathes as he tries to think of a strategy, something,  _anything_ that will let him come through this and still be breathing on the other side.

Witch-King Madrigal is mad and vicious, and everyone knows he's a warlock, has known since he failed to give up his throne when Onyx Court's cycle ended. He's never been challenged before, because a warlock—like a mad, rabid animal—is something to be feared more than anything else in the Nevermore, but Ianto takes comfort in the thought that even if he does die today, at least something will have changed. At long last, someone with weight behind their words will have declared the king an oath-breaker, and Ianto's challenge won't be the last.

He'll have changed something, done as much as he can to make up for betraying Jack.

Talia will see the team safely to the human world. Ianto takes a deep breath and  _believes_ it, as he hasn't tried to believe anything in years, and then pushes all extraneous thoughts away.

When the guards at the Witch-King's hall push open the tall doors and bow him through, it's the Lord of the Golden Court who strides over the threshold and across the wide marble floor. It's a caster who walks unerringly up to the black throne and lifts his head, and says clearly into the silence that's fallen over the assembled Courts, "Witch-King Madrigal, I name you oath-breaker and warlock. What say you?"

* * *

It's likely a testament to the strangeness of Jack's life that he barely blinks when a naked woman with blue skin, white hair, and pointed ears swirls into existence in the middle of the cell. Gwen and Owen both yelp, and Tosh flinches violently, but on the whole they're adjusting to weirdness as well, and instead of panicking they simply brace themselves.

She looks at the four of them, something satisfied in her expression, and then bares pointed teeth in something that only a blind man would term a smile. "Here," she says, and her voice is breathy and cool, like a gust of spring wind. "Mistress, I've found them."

Then she's gone again, and they're alone in the small stone room.

But not for long. The door bursts open, and one of the black-clad guards Jack has been trying to get a rise out of for hours now bursts in, sword in hand and dark cloud hovering around his shoulders like a cloak of shadows. He only has time to snarl at Jack, who's closest, and raise his short sword before a booted foot slams into the side of his helmet.

Before Jack or the guard can even begin to react, another person is in the cell with them, a woman with hair the color of apricots and the biggest damn sword Jack's ever see in her hand. She whirls it around once, moves forward in a blur, and slams one boot straight into the guard's groin. He makes a strangled sound, faltering, and the woman hisses, "Dryad! Take him!"

The earth moves, and the guard is gone.

Jack blinks at the woman as she casually wraps a length of cloth around the sword and slings the huge thing across her back, and then he says carefully, "Can I help you?"

The woman looks up, golden-brown eyes narrowing sharply, and marches right up to him. It's rare for Jack to have to look up at anyone, especially a woman, and he does so now with no small amount of trepidation. She looks  _vicious._

"Captain Jack Harkness?" she asks darkly.

Jack gets the feeling that if he tries to play dumb here, his entrails will shortly be making friends with the stone floor. Septic shock isn't a fun way to die, so he nods, offers up his most charming grin, and says, "I see my reputation precedes me."

Entirely unimpressed, she looks him over, curls her lip, and leans forward like she's never heard of personal space. "Ianto Jones. If you break his heart, I will tear you into tiny little bits, soak your sad remains in salt, and then feed you to a manticore. It will be  _fun._ Do  _not_  tempt me. Are we clear?"

Jack swallows and manages, "Crystal."

The woman smiles, deceptively sweet, and takes a step back. "Perfect. I'm Talia. I'll show you the way back to the human world if you'll just—"

"Ianto," Jack interrupts, because he physically can't restrain himself anymore. "Do you know—?"

"Of course I know." Talia narrows her eyes at him, one hand twitching towards her sword. "That fool of a boy is challenging the Witch-King right now, and it's not as though  _Hamal_ will keep him from doing anything stupid. But Ianto's as stubborn as a cat by water. He'll be fine."

The fact that she seems to be reassuring herself more than anything makes the words an empty comfort at best, and Jack sets his jaw. Ianto is part of his team, regardless of what he's done. Moreover, he and Jack are…something.

(He's the first person in a very long time who Jack's wanted this particular something with.)

"Take me with you," he tells the witch. "Send the others back, but take me with you to wherever Ianto is."

Perhaps predictably, Tosh and Gwen immediately protest, Owen snarling in his agreement half a beat behind them, but Talia silences them with an absent wave of one deadly hand. She studies Jack for a long moment, and then nods slowly. "All right," she agrees, and there's something terrifyingly like approval in her eyes as she tugs off one glove and raises her thumb to her mouth. A flash of white teeth, a splash of crimson blood falling in two perfect drops, and she sweeps a hand out grandly. "Come forth, Undine! Come forth, Djinn!"

The torches in their sconces flare, and the air goes bone-dry in a sudden rush as every single bit of moisture condenses in the center of the room and then twists itself around. The tongues of flame shape themselves around the figure of a muscular man with burning pits for eyes and a long tail of scarlet hair. He bows to Talia, even as the other figure settles into a more slender form—another man, this time with waves of sea-green hair and eyes so blue they put Ianto's to shame.

Not, Jack reminds himself, that this creature can compare to Ianto in any other way. Jack much prefers Ianto's lean muscle and fair skin to these two's dark coloring, Djinn's muscle-builder look and Undine's nearly feminine slenderness. Ianto is all sinew and strength, muscle earned in work rather than at a gym, and—

"Stop drooling," Talia orders, smacking him in the back of the head without looking, and Jack can't decide whether he's grateful or not that she doesn't realize he's picturing Ianto naked at the moment. It's sad that she thinks he's so easily fickle with his looks (though, really, if men like that are going to wander around naked—well), but she seems rather maternal where Ianto is concerned, and that sword is terrifyingly large and sharp-looking.

"Mistress," Djinn rumbles.

"You called, and we have come," Undine murmurs.

Talia nods sharply to both of them. "Undine, guide these three humans through the city to Vermillion Court's Cornwall gate and take them through. Follow the river to get there. Djinn, make sure no one intercepts them. Once this is done, dismiss yourselves with my thanks."

"Mistress," both of them echo, straightening from their bows. Undine heads for the door and pauses there, clearly waiting, while Djinn raises his hands, whirls back into tongues of flame, and then vanishes.

"Jack—" Gwen starts, about to argue, but Jack doesn't have time to hear her out right now, not when Talia is so obviously vibrating with the urge to move, to get back to Ianto and make sure he's safe. Jack feels the same urge himself, exacerbated by the unfamiliar surroundings, and this isn't the time for Gwen to press the fact that their teamwork could use improvement.

That can wait until after Ianto is back home, in Torchwood, where he belongs.

"Go," he says simply. "Get back to Cardiff and make sure the world hasn't ended while we've been gone. I'll bring Ianto back soon."

Tosh gently takes hold of Gwen's wrist, pulling her towards the door with a quick nod to acknowledge Jack's order. Owen shoots Jack a sour look and mutters something nasty—whether at being left out of the action or stuck with the girls for the next few hours, Jack can't tell—but follows, and the four of them slip out of the cell together.

Talia lets out a long breath and rubs a hand over her face, then nods to herself once and says sharply, "Let's go. If we're lucky, the challenge hasn't ended yet."

She heads out into the dark corridor, then through a door and into the strangely luminescent twilight of this world, with Jack right on her heels.

* * *

There is blood running down Ianto's arm, splattering and speckling the floor of the challenge circle as he turns to keep the Witch-King in sight. For once it's not a deliberate wound, not self-inflicted in order to trigger his magic—Madrigal hasn't kept his throne so long out of goodwill and kindness. The Witch-King is a mad fighter, and the fact that he's a binder does little to help opponents; with his leashed spirits to take the blows, Madrigal can meet even deadly attacks headfirst and without wavering.

But he only has so many spirits at his command, and four already lie on the arena floor, wavering and fading like smoke on the water.

Nevertheless, Ianto is at a disadvantage in this kind of fight, and the long gash down his shoulder is hardly the only wound Madrigal has given him, nor the deepest. There's a reason casters are the balance, the diplomats of the Five Courts; they're no good in challenges, preferring patience and forethought and premeditated attacks when it's least expected and when their circles and runes can be carefully planned and prescribed. Circles are only as permanent as the substance in which they're drawn; the greatest are laid in stone and metal for just that reason, and last centuries. Even good ink will fade within a few years, and pen on paper lasts only a month at best.

To draw circles in the air, with half his attention elsewhere and someone actively opposing him, as is required for sudden combat like this—

Ianto is lucky if his spells last minutes, at best.

And someone in the crowd of grim-faced spectators is  _humming._  It's enough to drive Ianto to distraction.

This is the very worst time to be distracted, too, Ianto reminds himself as he just barely ducks away from a sharp, shooting strike like a sword. He throws himself aside and rolls, coming up just in time to see a shadow-sending retreat towards the King once more.  _Stupid, stupid_ , he berates himself.  _Former Lord of the Onyx Court, the Nevermore's warriors. Over two hundred years of building his style and strategy, even if he wasn't actively fighting anyone at the time._

This is a battle Ianto is quite certain he will lose, so long as he plays it fair.

Still, he flicks rapidly through a string of symbols and images—Mountain's Death, the Sumerian symbols for darkness, mist, and forest, a glyph for Sirius the Dog Star and then Crane's Fifth Dance to unite them—and lets the array burn in the air for a brief moment to gather strength before sending it at the Witch-King with a flick of his fingers.

Darkness explodes over the arena, thick and choking, with shadows writhing through it to add to the confusion. It's not a direct attack, but a smokescreen, because while Ianto is a good many things a trained soldier isn't one of them. He's more the chess type, but chess takes pause and thought and he can't do that when Madrigal is throwing bound spirits at him one after another.

As he retreats to the far side of the ring, he carefully avoids looking in Hamal's direction, not wanting to see whatever expression is on his face right now.

He can't avoid the other face in the crowd, though, couldn't even if he wanted to, and he can't make himself want that. Because it's Jack, because Jack is here and tense and  _worried_  for him, even though Ianto is a traitor and nearly got the entire team killed.

Slowly, carefully, Ianto takes a breath and a mental step away. Regardless of his joy, regardless of the hope that's bubbling up in his chest at the idea of maybe, perhaps, someday being forgiven for his actions, it's not the time for that.

And whoever's humming  _still won't stop_.

But Ianto's always had a slightly odd mind, one half-step sideways from eidetic and one diagonally to the right of normal—part, he suspects, of being a caster and having so many thousands of symbols and languages in his head. In that moment of aggravation, something clicks into place.

_As I went down through Dublin City at the hour of twelve at night, who should I see but a Spanish lady washing her feet by candlelight?_

It's an old folk tune, memorable and lively, and Ianto closes his eyes as the pieces click together.

_Oh._

_I see_.

He risks a glance into the crowd, seeking the source of the song, and it's easy enough to find once he looks—a tall redheaded man, lanky and sporting a lazy grin as he leans against the arm of Azure Court's ceremonial throne. Ianto snorts a little, even as he brings a hand up again, this time tossing one of his pre-drawn arrays into the dissipating darkness. It's the same one he nearly used earlier, outside of Torchwood when he still clung to his doomed dreams, and somehow it's even more satisfying to use it now. With a simple murmur of, "Bellow, Thunder Gods," the array explodes like a grenade, shaking the arena and making the Witch-King cry out in pain.

Another bound spirit falls away, writhing with a death-blow, and then fades.

Five spirits released back into the aether, then. Only two more remain.

Another shadow-sending slams into the floor where Ianto had been standing, but he's learned (painfully) from Talia how to reduce even a caster's weak points, and he's already moving. Four steps to the left, a quick half-spin to avoid another sword-like blow as the Witch-King emerges from the darkness with his spirits around him, shadows forged into a blade that eats the light. Not quite fast enough, and Ianto's spent far too much time wielding a gun in the human world if this is how sloppy he's gotten, letting the King score a shallow slash down his cheek as he moves. But the next array is already spinning from his fingers, a streak of molten gold and sullenly glowing red, and with a murmured, "The dragon wakes at dawn," it bursts directly in front of Madrigal like a supernova, blindingly bright. He cries out, lifting a hand towards his face even as another spirit—the next to last one—falls away, and maybe Ianto could move in now and deliver a final blow, draw a circle or a rune and win the match if Madrigal has nothing left up his sleeve, but that's not the right thing to do.

Ten years and it will be the Golden Court's turn on the throne, but Azure and Vermillion come before, and if Ianto takes the throne from either of them the cycle will remain broken.

The power is tempting, because power is always tempting, but Ianto is no fool.

He takes a step back, another, and steps out of the ring entirely. It's a clear forfeit, and the crowd is deathly silent.

Then Ianto turns, dizzy with adrenaline and from the blood seeping from his skin in scarlet trails, and bows to the redheaded man lounging in Azure's throne.

"Shifter," he says, "you asked for my favor. Have it and claim your victory, with Golden Court's blessing."

The redheaded man—formerly a small Spanish lady with long dark hair—slowly rises to his feet, grin growing wider. "Ah," he says, and it's entirely satisfied. "Thank you, caster. I believe I will."

Dropping his sword belt to the ground, he strides past Ianto and into the ring, calling out, "Another challenge for you, Madrigal. Will you cry off, milord?"

With his mad eyes and bared teeth, the fury in ever line of his face, it's little surprise that Madrigal doesn't.

Perhaps Ianto should watch as the warlock, his Witch-King, dies at the hands of a bear, a dragon, a griffin, a wolf, a shifter-man with flaming hair—but he doesn't.

He turns, lets the dizziness overcome him, and tumbles straight into Jack's arms.

"I'm sorry," is the very first thing he says.

And then Jack kisses him, kisses him like breathing, like magic, like everything that's good and sweet and that Ianto had thought lost to him, and whispers back, "Don't be."

Even if it's not forgiveness, even if there is so much left to do and say and rebuild, it's enough.

It's so much more than enough.


End file.
